A love letter to my eighty year-old Dad

The one dependable legacy of being born in the 1940s in Australia? Skin cancer.

My father is now eighty years old and his dermatologist jokingly suggested that he should be given a customer credit card that offers the tenth malignant growth removal for free.

He no longer has Robert Menzie’s luxuriant eyebrows and the tips of his ears and nose have gone against what is expected of old fellers — they’ve reduced in size.

Each visit leaves him looking like he’s spent the night sobering up in a prison cell which is…